


Rehabilitating Roses

by Blakpaw



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Criminal Behaviour, Deterioration of mental state, EVENTUALLY ANYWAYS, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ex-convicts, Family Drama, Going off of medication without the okay, Jamie is a tired old man, Lots of Medication, M/M, Mako is a punk shit, Mental Disorders, Modern AU, Phone bombs, References to a past in some form of gang, Reverse Age Au (only for Jamie and Mako tho), Slow Burn, flowershop au, mental issues, refrences to PTSD, refrences to therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-07 11:27:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12840180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blakpaw/pseuds/Blakpaw
Summary: Jamison Fawkes was recently released from a twenty year stay in prison, for the past two years he's been trying to get his life back together and under control, but finding a job with a criminal record like his has been difficult.Maybe the local flower shop would be a good stay?





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m sorry, we just don’t think you’re… suitable for the job, you’re extensive criminal record leads us to have… concerns.” The, by now, painfully familiar phrase is uttered by a generic, pompous, asshole, suit. He looks up to the forty-eight year old ex-convict across from him, the lanky form slumping as his metallic orange arm scratches the back of his neck. He scowls a bit, golden teeth catching the light a bit, and his angry, unaligned, amber eyes looking anywhere but at the interviewer. He can’t blame them, can he? He’s only been out of prison for two years, is still in therapy, has a list of meds longer than most mass couponers shopping lists, and he supposes the gang style tattoos don’t help. The ungodly smiles, anarchy symbols, skulls, and flames, all symbols related to the Junkers, a nasty gang he’d been part of back when he’d first been arrested, full of anarchists and sociopaths. He’d been imprisoned some 20 years ago, his sentence was shortened because he plead guilty to the charges. It’s not like he was lying, they’d been right, and he didn’t want to rot in hell for the rest of his life.

He’s handed his papers back and he leaves, grumbling to himself a bit. He gets in his old, beat up rust truck, he remembers it was once orange with fire decals, but that had been much too long ago. He looks at himself in the mirror, scratches at the ghost of stubble on his face, tilting his head to look at the bald patches in his graying hair. The hair won’t grow back there, old burnt over scars that are incapable of growing much anything. He resigns himself to another sigh, and turns on the car, turning the radio up as he heads home, humming along to sweet, sweet of Mozart.

Jamison lives in an old beat down trailer court, there’s been at least six murders in the past two years, eight drug busts, and thirteen charges of domestic abuse. This pace probably isn’t the best place for him to be at, but he can’t afford anyplace better, not right now, anyways. Maybe, just maybe, if he could just get a fucking job he’d be able to get a good, proper, house.

He hauls himself out of the car, hobbles up the stairs to the door of his trailer. It’s not much to look at, an faded brown, the door is an off yellow, the windows cloudy with age, and the porch creaks with every step he takes. Stepping into the door, his foot lands and matching off yellow tiles, witch turn off to the right to a kitchen, which against the immediate wall is a dusty white cupboard, against the entryway wall is a sink, a stained gray-white dishwasher, and an old black beaten up oven, the fridge, which has also gone a little yellow, is a covered in questionable stains. Other than that the kitchen is sparse, lacking in a dining table. 

A few steps ahead from the tile there's ugly brown carpet, with gross questionable stains that leave the material matted down and stiff, across from the doorway is a very basic computer setup, the monitor, keyboard, mouse, and speakers on top of a medium sized white, foldable, table, the chair pushed up to it is a lightly padded, dark, wooden kitchen chair. A few feet off to the left of the setup is a dark red maroon couch, with bleach stains and moth eaten holes, and a rancid smell of something rotten on it. A little to the left of that is an old, black leather, reclining chair, probably the best kept piece a furniture he has, a lot less wear and tear on the material compare to his couch. In Front of those is a dark, slightly red tinted,wooden coffee table, one of the legs is missing, instead supported by cinder blocks and a few old books on the corner. On the opposite wall, immediately to his left, is an old battered TV, and a few game systems, which he doesn’t use often, usually to watch some show or to play games, as a means of distracting himself from any nasty thoughts he has. 

He makes his way across the room to a very short hallway, which cuts off to the left some fourteen or so feet into the bathroom, the tiles are the same off yellow as the door and the kitchen, and the walls a very pale pink, the tub is piss yellow, and the toilet white and covered in stains, the sink is across from the toilet, which is immediately left from the door, dipped inside of a short, light blue, counter area, which has a small white cabinet. The bathtub shower combo, to the right of the door, seems to have mold and forms of rot all over the walls and ceiling, and across the room form there is a long mirror, a few inches away from the floor and the ceiling. 

Further down the hall, at the very end, leads to Jamison’s room, the blue curtains are closed, giving the room a pale blue tint, and the lights on the ceiling are long burned out, the bed is huge, he decided he could at least spoil himself a bit, twice, maybe three, times the size it needs to be, on a light oak bed frame, there’s no sheet or pillow cases, leaving the stained, off white surfaces to be revealed, the black billowing blanket freely tossed around, covered in bits of crumbs from whatever snacks Jamison felt like bringing back here whilst he watched something on the old laptop he has under his bed. To the right of the bed is an old, dark brown bedside table, it has an old blue lamp on it, the only source of non natural light in the room, in front of that there's a pale blue pill box with a yellow sticky note on top of it with instructions of when to take his medication, and a glass of water near by.

He hobbles over, checking the note before carefully peeling it off and putting it by the box, dumping the appropriate compartment into his hand, popping them into his mouth and swallowing a huge swig of water. He sighs to himself a bit, before placing the glass down, turning around, and hobbling to the kitchen. He rummages in his fridge, before settling on something to eat and setting it cooking on the stove top. Once it was finished, he took it back to the living room, sitting down at his computer and turning it on. He happily nibbled on his meal as he scrolled through Facebook, when his hand was free, whilst he chewed, his hand instinctively shot for his stress ball, gave his hand something to fidget with before he scooped up the next bite.

Hana had messaged him, asking him how his latest interview went. Though she was much younger than him, nineteen compared to his forty-eight, but they were simply friends, she’d met him at a coffee shop she now works at, when both were applying for the job. They’d started chit chatting, had fun, and decided why not be friends. Of all the things he’s told her, though, he’s never mentioned his record, her dad, adopted, was Jack Morrison, the arresting officer on his case, and the officer who persuaded him to take the guilty plea. He wanted nothing to do with him, and honestly didn’t want him getting on his ass about something based around his daughter. Besides, he wasn’t into girls in anyway, so Hana didn’t have anything to worry about…. And also, his therapist, Dr. Zeigler, recommended he stay away from him, to avoid a possible relapse.

He blinked a few times, bringing himself back to the present and out of his head space, before replying with a simple “Didn’t think I was fit for the job,” which isn’t really a lie. Just not providing all the information as to why. She offers her condolences, and he changes the subject to something less awkward. She goes on to complaining a bit about college work, and other boring things, and Jamison gives the best help he can. Which isn’t a lot, because he was to busy in juvie to even thinking about graduating high school, and to caught up in prison to get the chance to do college. They talk a bit more, but eventually, as always, Hana goes off to perfect some new game, and he goes off to distract himself with some mundane, carbon copy Facebook game, still squeezing the stress ball. Dr. Zeigler had a strict rule about what games he could and couldn't play, nothing violent, and nothing that offered, what she labeled as, too much stimuli, if he wanted to play a game it had to go through her first.

He messes about for ages, occasionally talking to Hana in short bursts, until it was late. He took his sleeping meds and headed off to bed.

\--

He was stirred by the sound of his alarm clock from a dreamless night, he grumbled to himself a bit as he sat up, taking his morning meds and sipping his water. He went through his morning routine, piss, eat breakfast, and then grab the morning newspaper. He sat down on his ratty old couch, turning the TV on for background noise. He began to make a list of places with help wanted ads, comparing it with previous lists, crossing off places he’d already applied to, places that required high school high school diplomas and such were crossed off as well. With his list filed down to two or three jobs left he set about calling the places and setting up interviews.

\--

Jamison sighed as he got out of his truck, staring up at at the sign above the door of the little shop. It was a soft purple color, with green curling vines on the oval sign, and in vibrant pink words it read “Rutledge Rosery”. It was small and quaint, beautiful flowers in the windows, hanging next to the doors, and arranged delicately outside, it was made of brick and smelt of nature. This was the last job on his list, for the time. He hoped this went much better than his previous interviews.

Walking inside brings the mingled scent of a couple dozens of flowers to his, the floor is a gentle pink color, the drapes pale blue, the ceiling has beautiful hanging lights with flower decorated covers over them, the table were the register sits is also a pink color on the sides, but the table top is a darker, purplish, red color, there's a doorway behind the desk in place of a door is a draping wall of pink and purple beads, behind it is a plump older woman, with slightly darker skin, her pale, graying black hair pulled up into a bun, she has soft brown eyes the turn up look at Jamison as he enters, and they smile at each other, matching crows feet crinkling, she offers him a kind greeting, walking out from behind the counter.

“Well hello there dear! What can we help you with today?” Her voice is gentle, a little deep but nice enough. Jamison sticks his hand out, the flesh one, and shakes her hand happily “Hello miss, I’m Jamison Fawkes, I called for an interview a few days ago?” the statement coming out more as a question, as if asking if she received the call. Her gentle brown light up a bit and her lips spread wider and she eagerly nods “Oh yes, it’s a pleasure to see you here! My names Aria Rutledge, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Why don’t we come back shop and get that interview started?” she offers, already gently dragging back. He goes without a fight, and she sticks her head into the room, quickly speaking with someone.

“Mako, baby, I need you to watch the shop for me for a moment? Doing an interview with the nice man that called a few days ago.”

There's a deep grumbling noise, and she smiles and steps aside. The drape of beads pulls aside as a younger, larger man steps out, he has long, jet black hair that falls over his eyes and shoulder, a massive gut and gigantic hands, the left with huge rings and the right a spiked finger less glove, an absolute giant, with piercings littering his ears, a huge septum ring, a lip piercing on each side of his bottom lip in the form of spikes, and a piercing that arches above his eyebrow. He looks down at Jamison, his huge black eyebrows flat and angry looking, his lips twitch into a slight sneer as he walks past, an air of hostility following him. He seems the least likely person to call “baby”, much less leave in charge of a cute flower shop such as this. Unperturbed by the black clad giant that’s taken her place at the front counter, she happily leads Jamison inside the quaint, candle lit back room.

“I apologize for my son,” she smiles softly at Jamison, “I suppose he never really got out of his “punky teen” years, you know?” she sits herself down and Jamie offers an awkward smile and a shrug. She chuckles softly, pulling up a pair of reading glasses from somewhere in the desk, sliding them onto her face as she grabs his papers, which he sent to her a little bit ago. She hums a bit as she glances through them, he’s pretty sure he could see a few notes jotted down on them from the short glance he got.

“Now, I’ve gone through your…. Long record, and I suppose with a history like yours most people wouldn’t hire you,” she looks at him, her kind demeanor turned serious “but you see unlike most people, my son is… also going through some hard times, I’ve had to bail him out a few times, and I know what he’s done does not define him. He’s a sweetheart, deep down inside, he’s just not in a very good place. I’m sure that can be said for you, too, hanging out with the wrong crowd and such?” she looks him straight in the eye, calm and collected. He shrugs and nods a bit, nervously itching his head “Yeah… started like that, and, y’know, you just get addicted to the feeling….”

She nods in understanding and placed his papers down, “You don’t have a proper high school education either, which I’m sure has made jobing hunting hard. But, what I have planned for you I’m sure you’re smart enough for. I’ve read a lot of articles on you, terrifyingly smart.” she takes her glasses off, done skimming his resume and he shifts a bit and shrugs. Sure people think he’s smart, but Dr. Zeigler had to teach him to read when he was in prison back when he was a younger, more rebellious twenty-six year old. Again, Aria just smiled, and stood up “Well, anyways, me and Mako have been reviewing your papers, and we’ve come to an agreement. You’ll help take care of the plants, no cleaning products, just natural fertilizer, which Mako will be handling, on request of you Therapist, which we did call. I hope you don’t mind?” she seemed more concerned now, worried she may have overstepped her boundaries. Jamison couldn't be happier, grin spreading across his face, it felt like a weight was lifted off his shoulders and he hugged her “Of course! Of course all of that is okay! When can I start? I’ll start tomorrow if you need me to?”

She just happily laughs and pats his back, “Tomorrow sounds good to me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad memories, threats, and unwanted help.

As promised, Jamie started work the next day, happy as could be, whistling to himself. He hadn’t felt this good, and accomplished, since…. Well since his first bomb, huh? He shakes the thought away, quickly pushing that dastardly thought out of his mind, he glances at himself in the shop window, quickly running his hands through his hair to smooth it back, making sure it didn’t look like an absolute mess. Normally, he wasn’t a man to care much but this job meant a lot to him, he’d prefer to do everything he could to keep it. He took in a deep breath, collected himself and walked inside, Aria looked up from a magazine she was reading whilst she waited and she smiled, waving kindly at him. She turned her head, and gave a billow that only a mother could give her child.

“MAKO! Jamison’s here, time to start your shift. AND NO MORE LIP!” She snapped, the sudden shout making Jamie flinch a bit, she gave him a bit of an apologetic look, muttering softly “He’s been gripping all day about having to help you. I’m sorry for his bad attitude-”

“Don’t apologize for me,” a deep, rumbling voice entered the room as the broody twenty-five year old exited from behind the beaded doorway, hair still a floppy mess in his face, “ain’t sorry in the first place.” he grumbled, Aria giving him the stare of a mother's scorn. Jamie just nodded to her, and waved it off “Ah, it’s alright. I’m sure he’ll warm up to me in time, right big guy?” in return he got a deep grunt before being waved over “Let’s just get this over with.”

Most people might find watering flowers tedious but, for Jamison, it was relaxing, and nice. It was a little unnerving to have huge Mako over him the whole while, strikingly bright green eyes cold as they watched his every move. Eventually, he was lead behind the shop, which required going outside and around to get to, where they kept the surplus of flowers and watered those too. After watering the plants he and Mako set about arranging new pots in the shop, were previous plants had already been taken, arranging the small selection gardening tools to look neat and even, and then potting new plants to make sure they grew. After that was all said and done, she, rather kindly, made up lunch for the three of them, and Aria and him had a nice, as Hana would say “elderly style”, conversation about whatever it was they’d read in the papers this morning, and whatever meaningless gossip was traveling from the local hair salon. Through most of it, Mako is on his phone, only occasionally grunting in some form of neutral acknowledgement of their existence.

The day went on, eventfulness but nice, for the first time in much to many year Jamison felt proud of himself. Upon arriving home he gave himself the treat of a nice beer and a good few hours of enjoying a few movies. He kicked his leg up, nasty rusted prosthetic piece of shit crossed underneath the human foot, happily wiggling his toes and sighing in relief.

\--

Something Jamison learned a long time ago is that leaving the Junkers was extremely hard, on a lot of levels, he still had nightmares of being chased, murdered, beaten, or further tortured then he had been in those long years he’d been with them. He may have shit memory but he’ll never forget what the faces of those around him had looked like, there voices, there scars and tattoos, he’ll never forget the look in there eyes that all Junker’s shared, he won’t ever forget there spray tags, there calls

He’d been working at the flower shop for almost a month when he spotted it, behind the shop, on the back of another building, just behind the metal fencing the blocked the outside world from the serenity of the flower shop. Time slowed, sound amplified, mostly his heart beat, his vision narrowed down into a thin fine point to were all he could see was that dastardly mark, mocking him.

It was a skull, rounded at the top, with smooth, sharp cheekbones, and the teeth a set of four, narrowed into an arrow like point, eyes angry and hollow, flames dancing on it’s head. He remembers getting that skull tattooed on his right shoulder like it was yesterday, an initiation when he was a meager sixteen, the dynamite underneath an official rank among the wild men he once proudly called his own people. A demo man. A distraction, the man who got you in when every other plan failed. The bomber.

The tattoo on his back, that stretched from shoulder to shoulder, seemed to burn, to call for him, to try and burrow inside his spine and pull out it’s name sake, chanting for it. Junkrat. Nasty, angry Junkrat. And it wanted out bad.

The urge hadn’t been so bad in years, not since the doc set him on his meds, since he agreed to get better. Seventeen years ago he would of been whooping and hollering at the idea of bombs, and fire, and mayhem, but now his knees suddenly couldn’t hold him, his lungs were constricting, trying to choke the body they belonged too. He hadn't realized the buzz that had started, and grew louder the longer he stared, was him screaming. He didn’t realize until he was gasping and hacking, trying to draw breath in through his desperate whales as he uselessly fumbled, gigantic Mako stepping back in confusion and shock, not expecting the sudden outburst. Aria came running out on her short legs as fast as she could, phone in hand. Jamison couldn’t make out the words she shouted to Mako, and all he could hear was his heart beat, his cackle in the distance, sirens and screams, and the world seemed to catch on fire, and everything was crumbling, and oh god that’s a lot of blood-

The pain he was met with was just as unexpected as it was immense, the tears were in his eyes before the wheeze of pain was choking out of him, the draw in of breath was both heavenly relieving and painful as hell. Aria’s voice came to him first, strained high and angry “MAKO RUTLEDGE, THAT IS NOT HOW YOU FIX THIS ISSUE! YOU DON’T JUST SLAP A MAN TELL HE SNAPS OUT OF IT, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU-!?”

“Worked.” He grunted out, completely brushing his mother off as the large hand grasping his shirt let go and he dropped onto his ass, hissing in pain, his landing less than pleasant. Aria rushed to his side, mumbling swears under her breath as she helped him up, face softening, “Let's get you inside dear, I’ll get you a nice cup of tea ready, I called and ambulance in the rush, they’ll be here soon to check up on you.” Jamison still felt weak and wobbly, he had to lean down rather far for her to support him, which she didn’t even begin to complain about as he lead her inside. He touched the cool metal of his hand to his cheek, sighing softly as it lowered the surface of the angered skin.

She lead him to the back room, getting started on the tea as he cradled his head, focusing only on his breath and heart rate, no room for other thoughts, wasn’t safe to think of other things yet. His fingers instinctively squeezed, pinched the skin of his scalp, tugged his hair, his leg bouncing in a rhythmic pattern. Aria’s hand was small on his shoulder, he shivered as it was so close, to close, to that angry skull on his shoulder, and he drowned the thought away by gingerly taking the cup from her, sipping it, focusing on the taste, the burn it left in his mouth, the feeling of the glass clinking against his teeth. He didn’t dare close his eyes lest he see that dreaded mark again. It was safer this way. So much safer.

In due time, the ambulance arrived, they looked him over, his thoughts still running wild. Elevated heart rate, labored breathing, his cheek was bruising up, his eyes were contracted, hair standing up on end. In the end, they couldn’t do a lot, the simplest, safest, action was to send him home. So they did, they called Angela, made sure she would take him home, he was in no state to drive.

To Jamison it was all blurred, focusing on the pinpoint moments instead of the big picture, Angela tried to talk to him, ask him things, but all his words were impulsive, half thought sentences, basic ideas instead of fully fleshed out statements. Angela took on the task of leading Jamison through his own house, to his bedroom and into the bed, talking to him sweet and nice the whole time, making sure he was at least mostly there, and not about to drift away again. He never really noticed when she left, or when she came back, with drinks and foods, each with their own individual pinpoint of focus, the stimuli important to his recovery.

At some point he shut down, not quite asleep, but no longer thinking. He was safe, safe was good, safe meant he didn’t have to think about the thousands of hundreds of outcomes that could lead to his demise. Angela was good, maybe the greatest friend he’s ever had, she stayed with him all night, even when he did fall asleep. He was pretty sure that wasn’t in her job description, but what does he know?

For now, all he needs to know is he’s safe.

\--

He’s so tired, and still a little sore, when he makes it to work the next day (the sigh of relief that leaves him when he notes the vandalism has been removed lifts so much weight from him) Aria, bless, is there the whole time, worried if he should even be in now, if he’s okay, asking how he feels. He smiles the whole time, answering with positive little quips. He hears the door open, and he glances up to see Mako enter the shop, clad in black as always, his form still massive, looming, and threatening.

The look he has on his face is different than normal, darker, sterner, the throws of judgement and spite in his eyes, which stare right into Jamison, into his soul, somewhere in those hateful iris’ he can see a challenge there, like somehow he’s wronged the kid. He knows, without a doubt in his soul, the way anyone who’s seen that look before, something bad is going to happen, this Kid is up to something, and he’s the target.

Without another glance, Mako heads to the back of the shop to collect his daily work supplies, and, as always, he and Jamison start on their daily chores, the air of hostility still brewing between them. When Mako speaks, Jamison wishes he’d gone deaf during his previous “career’.

“Ya ain’t shit no more, old man. Whole gang knows it, and they’re out to get yer hide. They say ye got two options. Leave town like they told ya to years ago, or, well….” he chuckled deep and low, for the first time a smile pulling up on those thick, pierced lips “ you get the picture.”

For the first time since leaving prison Jamison wishes he was eligible to get a gun permit.

\--

He doesn’t sleep, he can’t. That punk ass shit’s one of them, and he works with him. Could beat him to death right then and there, knows his address for fucks sake, looked at his resume, could come buy and kill him any day. Worst of all that kids just damned himself to hell with those fucked up shits. Jamison’s life has been long, he’s learned from what he’s done, lived a full enough life to fill up multiple books, but Mako is young, and stupid, like he’d been. The punk signed his life away to them, just like he had all those years ago.

Elbows on his knees as he sits on his couch, deep in thought, fingers arched into a partial triangle and pushed to his lips. He can’t just call the cops, most definitely will cause an attack on him, he knows how they work. Can’t tell Aria, that will endanger her. He’s gotta save Mako. Barley knows the kid, but he has too. He has too. Someone’s got too. He can’t just sit by and let someone he knows suffer through what he did.

He sucks in a deep breath, he’s going to need help from an old friend of his. He knew better than anyone how to get on the Junker’s nerves, he knew what Junker’s liked, what they wanted.

To save Mako, Jamison needed Junkrat back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A liar tells the truth.

The hardest part about being Jamison Fawkes was that it required lying to himself. He perfected the style over the course of sixteen years, got so good at it he even convinced himself this is who he was. Becoming Junkrat required, surprisingly, to tell the truth. First step, forget the pills, a more terrifying prospect than he expected. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to even attempt life without them, in a way he began to rely on them, and yet he also knew they were suppressing him. He hated the thought, but he knew it was true, the real him was absolutely insane, this drugged up, saner him was a fake, a front.

And he was absolutely terrified to let it drop.

That little blue box had been a part of his life before he even left prison, he’d been relying on it for so many things, a sense of stability he’d been without for to much of his life. Carefully, he opened the tiny compartments, gently pouring them on his coffee table, into a baggy. He grabbed one of his mugs and began to crush the pills into fine powders, easier to hide this way, a hell of a lot more suspicious if anyone finds them, as a solution, he sprinkled it in leftovers from dinner last night, mixing and mixing and mixing until it was unnoticeable in the container before dumping the substance into the trash, hands already trembling from worry.

This is going to be a long, long day, outcome after outcome already running rampant in his mind.

He hoped, most of all, that Angela didn’t find out, he wasn’t ready to risk going back to prison yet.

\--

It didn’t take long for the absence of the medication to kick in, everything felt amplified by the time he made it to work, too slow and to fast, the stimuli more intense than it had been in years. It was likes the gears in his head had been jammed, caught up against each other, and suddenly broke loose, spinning fluent and fast, he could see weak points in every building, components in every car, imagining every outcome in every way. In its own right, it was like breathing fresh air for the first time after almost drowning. It was like he was living again after being dead for decades.

The hard part was done and over when he was finally let out of work, by then he’d slowly began curling in on himself, stretching out the skin on his back, making the faded tattoos seem further apart, twitchy eyes darting around his surroundings. Aria was worried for him, asked him over and over if he was okay, and oh sure he was, he was perfect, just little normal old him.

Leaving work allowed the second step to head into motion, one he was much more nervous about, partaking in an event he hadn’t practiced in twenty god damn years. Taking apart car parts to build something, not a bomb, not yet, that was to risky. He hobbled his way to his truck before driving away, away from the clean, red brick, buildings, deeper and deeper and deeper into the old run down slums of the city. There were broken windows on, almost, every other building, garbage littering the streets, everything from cans to bags to boxes and back. The buildings look faded, there's mold and other substances caked against all sorts of things, it smells rancid and rotten, and there’s gang tags everywhere, crossed out and repainted in a meaningless, endless loop. He keeps his head low, the lights don’t work in this part of town, he knows, his truck might be noticed if had still been painted, but all of it color had peeled and bleached off over the years, it blended with other shifty trucks down the road. 

He made his way down dirty, shifty, streets, deeper and deeper, the rancid smell of rot growing stronger the closer he drew to his destination. Most would find the smell sickening, would of turned tail and ran years ago, but Junkrat was not most people. The junkyard pulled into view, the sign unchanged as he’d left it, his own personal tag, that yellow, cross eyed, wide toothed smile, on the sign, obscuring the letters, his true home opening it’s arms and inviting him back in after so many years away. What had changed was the piles of garbage, the towering mounds of crushed cars, the piles of ever growing scrap metal, no longer working batteries and other tech. The rolling hills and alpines of any city. He felt giddy, coming back to so much more to play with and dig around in! He carefully crawled out of his truck, grabbing a flashlight from the dashboard and heading out into the maze of trash he once called home.

It was simple enough, collecting needed components, climbing on, and through, the twisting pillars of garbage to collect what he needed, though he notes the slightly stiffened joints from his growing age. He decided his first invention of two decades past was going to be a new arm, something with all those nice, helpful, compartments. He scurried back to his truck with arms full of twisting metal, wires, and other assorted items, rushing about to find makeshift tools for another hour or so before leaving. Had it been another time he would of stayed here to build, to rush back and forth from his thrown together shit shack, for the components he needed, but such was not the case. He drove home with all he needed, giddy and giggly as he’d been in much too long.

He speeds back home, and just as always luck is on Junkrat’s side, cops to busy to deal with some old rusted truck with clunking scrap metal rushing through the town. He howls down the streets with laughter, screaming with glee when he takes a corner too sharp, causing his truck to lean so that he only drives on the side wheels for a few feet. He eventually calms himself down, enough to avoid suspicion as he drives in his trailer court, fingers drumming nervously until he stops, just barley taking time to turn his truck off and scramble out to grab his gear and rush inside.

He scurries around for a bit, grabbing something quick to snack on, putting one of his councils on and playing music, making an entire pot of coffee before he settles down to work. This is the most important part of Junkrat, this is everything he ever enjoyed, he sits on the floor with his pot of coffee, sipping from it as he begins to sort through the materials on his coffee table, sorting things apart, staring them over and contemplating before nodding to himself and deciding he’s ready.

\--

He doesn’t sleep that night, and he gets most the way done with the skeleton of the hand, before he realizes he has work soon. He smells, and looks, like shit, bags under his eyes, and he hears the facebook messenger. Right, he has a lie to uphold. He drags himself over to the computer, hissing as the missing parts of his limbs feel raw, not used to being stuffed inside there prosthesis for a full day. Hana had been messaging him all night, it appears, at first just simple hellos, that quickly devolved into concern. He has to focus to keep his fingers to stop shaking with there almost constant trembling, typing out a quick message.

“Sorry there mate, got home late last night, made some personal shit to deal with.”

“Oh thank god Jamison! I was worried something had happened!”

“Nah sheila, ain’t nobody gonna little old me.” he’s quick a low “Lies.” to himself, glancing over at his coffee table with the sprawled pieces for an arm. His past is coming back to haunt him, not that it didn’t torment him everyday even when he wasn’t in his deteriorating state of insanity. He feels the titter croak out of his throat, he feels hypersensitive, a sensation he’s still trying to re adjust to, still trying to process all the stimuli from last night, meds still trying to finish working through his system. He hobbles down to his bed room, getting changed, taking a moment in the bathroom to compose himself.

No one could ever say Junkrat was a bad actor, after all, he managed to stay under the radar long enough with nothing but his own wits.

\--

He heads back to the junkyard for more supplies that night, throwing his constricting shirt of the instant he’s out of sight. He has all the intentions of rushing into the field of twisted metal, to run into his playground of tetanus, but as his trucks motor shifts from a deep rumble into night time ambiance he picks up on something else, something he’s sure is meant to be quieter than it is.

There’s whispering, he turns his head a few times, making sure his left ear, the more keen of the two, picks up on the sound. They’re close, an ambush, waiting, behind a pile to his left. He carefully rolls his window down, it’s quite enough, he sticks his legs out first, to avoid the clattering it might make on the truck. He keeps his torso stiff as he pulls himself out, his hold muscles still strong and firm, and he carefully twist so he lands on the ground, twenty years ago his knee joint would of clanked loudly, but his new prosthetic allows for a more silent landing. He quickly maneuvers himself away from his truck, to the opposite mound, pulling up wires and bits of metal as he went.

He may not have bombs yet, but he resourceful. He pulls out his cell phone, crouching down, tilting himself to peer over the mound. The ambush has moved to the car, there's about five of them, a small group of Junkers, rookies, he can tell. This is a mission, an initiation. Destroy the strangers truck, kill the man who thinks he can just waltz into there junkyard. Big mistake. This is Junkrat scrap yard, and no one takes what’s his. He finishes the quick hot wire and stands up, he whistles, the eyes of his would be ambushers looking up at him, the dusk light just barley illuminating their faces, and he grins, he smiles like the mad man he is. He waves and gives a little “Hello cobbers.” before glancing at the screen of his phone, grinning as the clock on the display went backwards at fast speeds, and he tosses it, watches it fall to there feet.

They look at the device, look back up at him and his sickly wide grin, back down to the phone, and then look at each other and start laughing, pulling out guns. In response Junkrat looks at his wrist, he doesn’t have a watch but he’s a man for dramatics. He holds up his other hand, counting backwards from five underneath his breath, the clock faster than what he’s used to, the rookies starting to climb up, and he’s pulling his fingers down as he counts, he leaves his middle finger for last, and when it finally curls in to join the rest there's a boom, not as loud as he’s used to but his eyes shoot down and shrapnel files, the front of his truck bounces a bit, one of the lights shatter, and the Junkers are left disorientated by the event, a few curled up. It’s not the result he wanted, but for the first bomb in two decades he thinks he’s done pretty damn good. He scurries down, quick to strike whilst they’re in a daze, metal hand conking against heads.

He forgets about the scrap, at least for tonight, instead he digs through their pockets until he finds a spray can, he walks around them in a big circle, arranges them around a bit and keep going. Two of them end up with parts of the X’s for the eyes, and the other three become part of the smile, an almost exact replica of the smiling face sprayed on the Junkyard sign, which is very close to the tattooed grin he has on his shoulder, a little below his name.

He steps back to admire his work, and smiles, a grin to match the face he’s just painted.

Junkrat’s back baby.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan goes a bit off course. Winging it's way more fun, anyways.

Aria becomes worried when Jamison begins to forget things. It’s small at first, forgetting where he put things down, what time it is. But then he begins to…. Disconnect from himself entirely, amber eyes staring in the distance, body hunching over, fingers nervously twiddling whilst his subconscious is miles away. She became worried when she found Mako staring at the small lithe old man as he cackled, rubbing his hands over his face and stomping his feet, her son looking utterly confused at the sight.

She begins to think maybe accepting him in so eagerly may have been a mistake.

Jamison is… different, he changed somewhere between when she hired him and now. She thinks maybe he needs a break, some time away from work, maybe time to socialize. So, she invites him over for dinner, much to the protest of her son.

In fact they were bickering about it now, Aria making her way down the deep dark brown wood of the stairs that lead up to Mako’s room, into the quaint living room, with a wooden table that looked hand carved, a few feet in front of a large pale tan couch, in front of both of those a TV stand with a small flat screen, a game console or two underneath, and a radio system. She looks over her shoulder, sharp thick eyebrows lowered as she scowls at her much larger son “He’s been through a lot Mako! Deserves some hospitality! Besides, Something seems to be bothering him.” she makes her way to the kitchen, a few feet to the right of the stairs, the kitchen has checker pattern pink and white floor tiles, the walls covered in herb wallpaper,there are dark wooden cupboards along the wall, an oven shoved between them, close to a sink, and no dishwasher in sight. The front door is located in the kitchen, a few feet off from the white fridge, and in the center is a large dining table, already with place-mats set, Aria heads to the oven and checks on the lasagna she’d set cooking.

She hears her son stomping around behind her, not yet ready to drop the argument it seems, she bends back up, getting up on her tiptoes to stir some stew she had cooking, brows still low set.

“Why’s it our problem t’ deal with ‘im!? He’s just some old crazy dude we met a few months ago-”

 

“He’s a human being and coworker! It’s quite normal to have meals with coworkers!” she snapped, turning to point the stirring spoon at her son, before putting it back in the pot, moving to set the table, handing her son the plates as she took the silverware. He angrily begins to place them down carelessly, scowling “He’s a fockin creep! Laughs at nothin’, sounds like a crazy shit-”

“Mako Rutledge if another swear slips past your lips so help me!” She snaps, slamming her hand full and silverware on the table, pointing one of her thick fingers at him “You’re twenty five for god’s sake! You’re not some sixteen year old punk any more! When is this going to stop!? When are you just going to move on!” she snaps, flailing her arms, her wrinkled face going a bit red, “I do nothing but support you! I let you bring your-....your criminal friends over! I don’t even ask you to clean up when you make a mess of the house! So for ONCE can’t you have a little RESPECT for your MOTHER!” she huffs, chest heaving a bit, she could feel tears in the corners of her eyes. Her son looks stunned by the outburst, his thick pierced brows arched upwards and his thick lips puckered from the tension on his face, and his green eyes flicker over her, and he opens his mouth to try and find the words, barley getting out a gentle, slightly hurt sounding “Ma-” before there a sporadic knock at the door, causing both of them to jump. She sighs softly, handing her son the leftover silverware, giving a soft muttered, “We’ll talk this over later.”

Mako feels his gut wrench when his mother puts on that smile so easily, like she hadn’t been screaming on the brink of tears moments ago, but he keeps his face blank as she greets there guest.

“Jamison, dear, I’m glad you came! Dinner will be done soon, come, take a seat in the living room.” She gently takes his thin wrist, taking the forty eight year old to there living room, motioning for him to sit on the couch, which he does and quickly puts his hands under his legs as they begin to bounce with unbridled energy. She gives him a warm smile, going off to get a requested drink for him, Mako still standing in the kitchen, not sure what to do with himself. Aria gently lays one of her small hands on his elbow, and he looks down at her, and she smiles at him softly, full of motherly love, though that pang of pain is still there, softly muttering “Could you finish setting the table baby?” and he nods a bit, averting his eyes but leaning down none the less when she gives his short sleeve a slight tug before pecking him on the cheek, wrapping her free arm around his neck in a slight hug. She pulls herself away after a moment before heading back to the living room with Jamison’s drink.

Mako watches her go and sighs, beginning to finish setting up the table. He’s alone, and there for left to his thoughts, and he thinks of that look on his mother’s face, he think about how much he sees it, when they’re home alone, all that love, and yet all that pain. Because of him. He clenched his fists and huffed, before gently uncurling one of his giant fingers, nudging the silverware into place, or at least trying to. But it’s clunky, and he nudges it to far, and he lowers his brows in frustration.

He can’t remember why, anymore, he was lead to join the Junker’s… he vaguely remembers feeling weak, and that they made him feel strong, made him feel like, somehow, they could give him the power to protect his mother, prevent what happened to his father happening to her. He thinks if he gets strong enough, dangerous enough, he could protect her from anything, and right now he needs to protect her from Jamison, because as long as Jamison is around his mother the Junkers will be close by, and they’ve been dangling her safety in front of him for months and he had to do something.

He clenched his fists, jaw tightening. He was going to get rid of that old twat if it was the last thing he did, he wasn’t going to let his mother get taken from him too. He was dragged from his thoughts when his mother re entered the kitchen, smiling softly at him again, pulling his own awkward quirk of the lips in return, and he stepped over to help her fill up plates, hoisting her up so she could serve the stew into bowls, before setting her down, clearing a space for her to put the heat rack and lasagna tray.

Once done his mother gave him a gentle tug back down again to give him a proper hug, which he returned, just barely touching her, afraid he might hurt her, and she whispered softly, words only for him to hear, “I love you, my tama.” she gave him another gentle kiss, he tilted his head a bit so she could kiss his temple. She gave his broad shoulders a gentle pat before letting go, Mako stretching back up to his full height.

Soon after dinner was served, and Mako as at his respective spot, silent as he ate, watchful eyes on Jamison. He twitched a lot, fingers dancing across the table between bites, his amber eyes flickering every which way he could manage, whilst his mother was as calm and collected as she could be. She took a gentle sip from her tea cup, before placing it back down, turning to face there guest, smiling gently.

“So Jamison, I hope I’m not prying, but recently I’ve noticed… some changes, and I’m worried… is everything alright dear?”

“Alright?” he giggles, squirms his whole body, the sound sends Mako’s hair standing on end, hand clenching around the fork he has a hold of, he can feel it give under the pressure, “I’m more than alright sheila! I’m perfect! Never been better!” he titters, resting his face on his curled fingers, a shiver running down his lithe form. Aria looks a little unsettled but nods slowly, glancing him over, “Well, it’s just that you’ve been… forgetful lately, you seem a little distracted, maybe a little on edge?”

Another giggle, and he shrugs “Oh, I suppose a bit, but really nothing I can’t deal with!” he bares his teeth in a crazed grin, eyes quick to land on Mako, the threat he once gave to the older man ringing in his ears. His throat feels dry, but he resists the urge to swallow, keeps his face straight as he shovels a forkful of his meal into his mouth. Mako looks in those amber eyes and he can see the difference, but a week ago Jamison’s eyes were light, maybe his pupils a bit big, but that’s to be expected when he’s being pumped full of drugs, but here, now, they’re notably smaller, pupils and irises contracted, the light doesn’t seem to reach them the same, and his left eyes seems even more off kilter than before. Mako stares intensely, dread pooling deep in his gut as he begins to realize what’s happening.

Aria goes to speak again when the phone rings, and she excuses herself before stepping away, neither of the two men looking away from her. Jamie leans forwards, lowering his voice, which can go surprisingly deep, muttering softly, “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, punk. None of you and your little shit Junker friends stand a chance against the one and only Junkra-”

Mako doesn’t want to hear any more, and he swings his huge fist wide, striking Jamison in the skull, surprisingly he doesn’t go down instantly like most other men would, instead he screeches, dragging himself onto the table and lunging at Mako, clawing at him as Mako topples backwards in his chair. The large grunts turning to crush him under his weight, but he moves with surprising speed with someone as old as him getting on Mako’s back, though he can hear the cracking of a knee joint, before he feels liths, strong arms, wrap around his neck as the shit begins to cackle.

He can hear his mother scream as he sits up, large hands on the arms around his throat, constricting his throat and making his delicate lungs ache, he slams his back into the nearest surface, hears a pained hiss, but the arms dig deeper, and he slams again, gasping for air, unable to see from the wash of his own black hair over his face. He slams a third time, and the older man lets go, Mako hears glass breaking and he stumbles, spinning around but only collapsing again, clawing at his pocket for his inhaler, beginning to panic, only adding onto the struggle to breath, as he realizes he has no idea is his mother is okay, were she is. He brings the inhaler up to his face, and he hears feet rush towards him, and his mother is in his vision, the panic washes away and she cups his face gently, staring at him with concern, he pulls her down on top of himself, holding her in a hug he desperately needs.

\--

Okay, maybe things didn’t go as planned, maybe he ran his mouth and jumped the gun, but planning was overrated. Winging it was way more fun. Jamie kept running to his truck, a few shards of glass still embedded in his shirt, and cheeks, from throwing himself out the window. He stumbles into his truck, turning the lights on and rushing off. He didn’t have time to prepare, wouldn’t have time to go back home, and he was going to have to find somewhere to stay, somewhere out of site, close but not too close to the junkyard. Police were going to be looking for him, without a doubt.

He cackled to himself as he sped of, towards the slums, it felt good to have to stop pretending to be someone he wasn't. It felt good knowing he could do whatever he wanted, blow up whatever he wanted. He sped off, not sure where he was going, but confident he would get where he needed to be.

That night the city ran cold with the familiar cackle followed by chilling sirens.

**Author's Note:**

> https://trash-den.tumblr.com/post/168123719366/jamisons-tatoos-in-rehabilitating-roses-at-least  
> A rough diagram of his Tatoos


End file.
